


You Taste Like Mine

by Necronon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Pack Bonding, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:38:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19160404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: Dettlaff's bite during the showdown at Tesham Mutna has unexpected consequences for all parties involved, but that doesn't mean there aren't debts to settle. Everyone is out for blood, the rules of engagement keep changing, and Geralt wants contracts with less complicated quarry.





	1. Bridge

Cold desperation seized him when Regis tore past, claws and teeth and smoke.

He knew it had to be this way. Dettlaff had been little more than a pawn, but his crimes couldn’t and wouldn’t be pardoned. A city had burned, and Geralt couldn’t trust history not to repeat itself. Syanna’s corpse, if nothing else, was testimony enough.

Thank the gods that Regis had honored _his_ word—even together, they might not stand a chance. He couldn’t begin to calculate his chances, so infinitesimal were they, if Regis had chosen to stand with his brother, born in blood and clinched by a life debt. There was no time to wonder at it, why this man—and he was a man, for all that he wasn’t on page—would choose exile and a witcher over the life of his companion with whom he shared a bond so layered and complex that he couldn’t hope to comprehend.

Or so he thought.

Geralt slipped into a battle trance with ease, aided by the real danger that his dearest friend (and it was just then that he realized this about Regis) was in. Dettlaff had gained the advantage, letting Regis tire himself out with easily countered assaults. His steps were increasingly sluggish and his normally inaudible heart was beating like a smithy’s hammer on the anvil. Geralt could hear it, maybe for the first time since they reunited, as he tuned into the fight, trying to distinguish between the two higher vampires in their frenzy.

By the Gods, they were fast. It was disorienting, and just when he finally discerned the lupine glare of his enemy and hefted his silver sword, Dettlaff was gone in a plume of crimson.

And then Dettlaff was on him.

Pain exploded in his neck and shoulder, white-hot. He heard the hoarse sound of his own howling, like the unforgiving wind that cut through the towers of Kaer Trolde, as the beast unhinged its powerful jaw and tore into his shoulder. _Bite like that could probably crush a man’s skull._ And then he was on his knees, dizzy from the gouts of blood surging out of him with every squeeze of his heart, which he could now feel with an unsettling intimacy. His decoctions could only do so much against such immense blood loss and carnage. If the Black Blood he’d taken upon his arrival at Tesham Mutna was still coursing through his veins, the beast latched onto his neck didn’t seem to notice.

Where was Regis? Was he already dead, dying? Was this it? Had they failed, after everything? He needed to find his friend. He needed--

Geralt fumbled blindly out to push Dettlaff off him, but only managed to cling weakly, leather bunched in his failing grip.

Geralt had been more than close to death before, but something was amiss. Even as his vision waned, inviting darkness, a buzzing anxiety, electric anticipation, was stirring at the core of him. Some place so vital and unmolested that the disturbance there nauseated him. He moaned and babbled incoherently, pleaded, cursed. That deep, horrible wrenching that was growing exponentially in the very substance of him was so much worse than any physical pain he’d known. Worse than any toxin or magic. As bad as…

_Go ahead. Thrust it--_

_Who was he, Geralt?_

_You were to—and regenerate!_

_Geralt…?_

Something inside him snapped, wound tight to the point of agony then loosed. Geralt was floating. He was distantly aware of the horrible strength of the arms around him and a low, rumbling moan that reverberated in his chest like the hooves of Morvudd upon the earth. Two hooves, beating out a rhythm across his corporeal and metaphysical self.

The pain was distant now, a throb that underscored the beating. He let it lull him into a state somewhere between his witcher meditation and unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

A voice. Familiar. Near. A palm on his cheek. Cool. Smelled like mandrake, herbs and...the inside of a forge. Cold acid-washed steel.

“Geralt, can you hear me?”

Geralt spoke. Coughed instead. Then, trying again, “Y-yes.”

“Thank the Gods.” Weariness and relief edged the voice. “I’ve watched you fight for your life for three days. Here, drink if you can. Up.”

Geralt’s head spun as Regis— _Regis, you’re alive_ —helped him upright, shoving a bedroll behind him for support. Geralt drank cautiously as the vampire inspected his shoulder, unraveling his bandages to replace the wrapping.

“Does it hurt?” Geralt jolted, mistaking the action when Regis pressed his lips to his temple. "You're still feverish."

“S’fine.”

“Better now, but the blood loss—excuse me if I’m grossly underestimating witcher biology, but I was sure you were dead or would be soon.”

Geralt blinked sleep from his eyes and twisted to look, coughing out a dry laugh when he saw his friend's dramatic expression. Regis really _was_ worried. “I was pretty sure myself. Last thing I remember was...well, dying. Or something damn near close.”

“Fortunately, you were mistaken. You don’t remember anything else?” Regis asked reluctantly. Geralt didn’t like his tone.

“No,” he said. “But feel free to fill me in any time.” Then he _did_ remember something. “Where is Dettlaff?” He started up, the fight coming back into him, but Regis forced him down by his shoulders.

“Relax.”

“I hate when people ask me to relax. Usually means I shouldn’t.”

“I’m not asking,” Regis said, tsking and shoving the mug of water back at him. “I—well. He left.”

Geralt paused mid-drink and glared over his cup. “‘Left’?”

“Don’t concern yourself with trivialities; you should reserve your strength for--”

“ _Regis_ ,” he growled.

Regis stood erect and crossed his arms. Made a little obstinate sniff. “If you must know. He _left…_ soon after I roused and found you two entangled and--” Regis gestured in the air, making lackadaisical circles. “Well, not kissing, but--”

Geralt had to be stopped again as he started up out of his makeshift cot, teeth clenched.

“Patience is a virtue, Geralt. As I was saying: not kissing, but—oh, this is horribly awkward—ah, well, _nosing_.”

“ _Nosing?_ ”

“It’s… typical higher vampire behavior—well, not typical, you see--”

“ _Get to the point_ , Regis.”

Regis took a fortifying breath. Shut his eyes. Sighed. “It’s typical behavior between bonded pairs, albeit there is no appropriate word for it in your vernacular. It’s not dissimilar, but not precisely similar, to a feline’s scent marking: both an expression of affection and greeting that aren’t mutually exclusive. It is bad form to do it publicly, but fledgling bonds are usually accompanied with erratic and primitive impulses while they are still solidifying. They are rare, and one-sided when concerning humans, only...”

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“It is clearly not one-sided.”

“How can you know that?”

“Well, you are alive. And—really, Geralt can’t this wait?” When Geralt’s frown only deepened, Regis acquiesced with an irritated shake of his head. “You weren’t exactly recalcitrant. And I could… feel it.”

“Vampires can sense other vampires’ bonds?”

“No, even though scent is usually tell tale. It’s, well. A three-for.”

“What,” Geralt deadpanned.

“Dettlaff and I are brethren. So when he—when you—well...we bonded by extension.” Regis’ posture sagged and he spoke in a rush. “Geralt, I reallyamsorry, this just doesn’t happen. By all rights, isn’t even possible, but—you may want to add an addendum to Kaer Morhen’s tome about the Trial of the Grasses. I do believe there is vampire in you after all.”

“What? Something like: ‘May result in metaphysical marriage to vampires’?”

Regis frowned. “It’s hardly as superficial and contrived as--”

“Enough. I need to think. Alone.”

Regis grasped the strap of his satchel and dipped his head, lines deepening on either side of his mouth as he pressed his lips tightly together. “If you wish. But, and please hear me out, I do not think that is a wise path.”

Geralt raised a brow. “Something _else_?”

“Yes,” Regis said, seriously. “Dettlaff will not let this matter rest.”

“Think he still plans on finishing the job?”

“Maybe,” Regis whispered. “I don’t even know if he can, or if he wants to. Killing a bond mate is excruciating and doesn’t conclude the affair for the party left alive. It’s a hollow existence, and as rare as bonding is, undoing one, even by true death, is rarer still.”

“He killed Syanna.”

“There was no tangible bond. Vampires love differently than you humans. Or not at all. Dettlaff is...a creature of instinct. As are we all when young, but I suspect his isolation—among other experiences—have resulted in some maladjustment. He is not evil, Geralt.”

“Forgive me if I’m not so quick to pal around with a guy that tried to eviscerate me three days ago.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, it’s much more intima—ah, complicated than _paling around_ now.”

Geralt dug the heels of his palms into eyes and groaned. “So what do we do?”

“I’m...not entirely sure. I had little knowledge of bonds before my convalescence, and I have little more now. An esoteric study, even among vampires. But rest assured, Dettlaff will come. He will have little choice in the matter, especially one so driven by instinct as he.”

Geralt sat, stupefied, for a period. When Regis started to get antsy, he asked, only a little cautiously, “You and I are…?” He couldn’t say it.

“We are,” Regis replied softly.

“ _Great._ ”

“It is something we will need to discuss, but I am beginning to suspect it may, and this is just conjecture, be...” Regis hesitated and, after a visible swallow, added, “ _m_ _y_ fault.”

 


	2. Fulgurite

It was the final round, and Geralt was shy by two, scoring 178 to his opponent’s generous 182. He was playing Northern Realms and leaning heavy on siege units and a Siegemaster leader. A fine enough way to pass the time until he was fit to ride, especially with a crafty higher vampire for competition. Geralt’s wound (gross understatement of the century) was scabbed over, but the fever had yet to break and he found himself barely able to stand when it came to a head. Even his witcher fortitude wasn't quite up to par with whatever had taken hold over him. _No typical fever._ It was best to ride with the light besides.

“Hm.” Geralt openly glowered at the remaining card in his hand, and Regis’ smile stretched a little wider.

“Let me guess: Clear Skies?” Regis gestured over their game which was decidedly absent of any weather effects.

“Not quite," he said and placed his Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy with deliberate gravitas.

“Oh—you’re _very pleased_ with yourself, aren’t you?” Regis shook his head and threw up his hands in defeat. “Tell me: how does a witcher become so accomplished at Gwent?”

“Lotta Innkeepers willing to discount lodging if you can beat their deck. And wintering at Kaer Morhen. Not much else to do.”

“A thrifty witcher,” Regis said as he separated their cards.

“Contracts don’t pay what they used to.”

“I imagine they won’t pay at all if the armies of Nilfgaard continue their advance. No place for beasts among men.”

“Or witchers.”

“A dying breed,” Regis said wistfully.

“S’pose it’s better that way. The Trial of the Grasses isn’t exactly accommodating.”

“One can still mourn a time past and its associated experiences and people. Even in spite of the horrors it might encompass.”

“Sometimes I forget how old you are.”

“Naturally. I am very spry for my age,” Regis said, adopting a _very_ dignified posture and turning his nose up in the air. Then grinning slyly.

“Among other things,” Geralt grumbled, wearing a small smile of his own.

“Speaking of witchers—I did some reading while you slept. The Trial does indeed contain vampire components. Albino bruxa, to be exact.”

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“On the contrary. Albinism is rare in the wild, and bruxae are themselves rare and reclusive creatures. Finding one at all, let alone one with such distinct color variation, is unheard of.”

“So you think the Trial is to blame for our...predicament?” Geralt still couldn’t get his head around the idea of bonding or what it might entail. “Doesn’t make sense. I’ve had close encounters with every species of vampire, rarely unscathed. Occassionally bitten. Never had one latch on quite like _this_ before.”

Regis paused his card shuffling and frowned, not meeting his eyes. “It does make sense. When you consider the fact that I’ve been bound to you since our days with the hansa—well before Stygga.”

Geralt was struck silent by both surprise and a sudden pang of nostalgia. Loss. Neither spoke for a moment. Then Geralt asked, “How?”

Regis shook his head. “I don’t know. Blood bonds are straightforward affairs and, while rare, certainly more common than their immaterial counterpart. Our bond is... They can occur in a flash, like a bolt of lightning striking glass out of sand. An abrupt and decided change. Or...” Regis looked at Geralt. “They can happen gradually. A tectonic shifting in the very substance of someone. I don’t think I even knew it had happened until I realized I could not leave you, even if the consequence was death.”

Thinking of their encounter with Dettlaff with dawning realization, Geralt said, “Even if it meant betraying your kind. Being hunted for the rest of your life.”

“Even then,” Regis whispered. “There was nothing to be done. Guess the, ah... _bat's_ out of the bag now."

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you find me after you regenerated?”

Regis closed his eyes and said, “It was agony, to feel as I did knowing you could never return that feeling. I had accepted my lot and had hoped that with time and distance the consuming ache I felt for you might lessen. The fact that the bond remained after the destruction of my body tells me it is one that exists outside of the jurisdiction of the flesh. A true bond, what we call, roughly translated, the _Heaven’s Knot_ , although ‘heaven,’ that is the vampire afterlife and immaterial plane, is another topic too vast to tackle just now. Even though you do contain some small degree of vampire in you from your induction as a witcher, you were not able to bond because you are still an inherently corporeal being. Perhaps by using my blood bond with Dettlaff as a tangible bridge, we closed the gap. It sounds outrageous, even as I say it, but here we are, vampire and...well, I suppose not precisely human, sharing the most sacred relationship a higher vampire can know.”

“Regis… All this time.”

Regis gave him a tired smile. “You did quite the number on me, Geralt of Rivia. To think, had I not abstained from you, we might have arrived here much sooner without Dettlaff as a proxy.”

Geralt did his best to ignore the many meanings he could extract from _abstained from you._ “Or I would have been the one lying on the ground with my neck open, instead of half of Stygga.”

“Were you not in a remarkably similar situation three days past?”

“Hm.” That was true enough. But Dettlaff wasn’t a recovering addict.

He wondered if it would have mattered if he’d known. He’d been ready to run three feet of silver through Regis when he’d discovered what he was. But something had changed. Tectonic was right. A gradual shift. He hadn’t put a name to his feelings; he’d only known he felt them. That when he watched Regis regaling the hansa as they warmed by the fire, never short of tall tales, he felt something warm unfurling within him—and upon finding the vampire’s remains at Stygga, an abject cold that pierced the very marrow of his bones: the heat of something nascent pinched out before it could smolder. Albeit a fond one, he hadn’t thought of Regis as more than a friend then. Had he...?

Geralt startled when he felt his hand taken, lifted slowly so that he might withdraw it if he desired. He didn’t. Only looked on as Regis held it, palm up, and gently pushed the sleeve of his doublet along his wrist, exposing the pulse point.

“May I?” Regis asked, and, after a moment of consideration, Geralt said, “Yeah.”

Geralt wasn’t sure to what he’d just consented, but when Regis searched his face for reticence, he nodded his ascent. He trusted Regis—he knew that much.

Then Regis closed his eyes and brought his lips against his wrist, a careful and reverent touch, terribly intimate in the quiet space of the tomb where Regis had made his makeshift home. So quiet Geralt heard when Regis drew a deep draught of him, long and slow and holding it in his lungs. A hungry re-imagining of what had been done with Dettlaff’s dismembered hand. A talking point for later.

Regis made a sound as if he were in pain, and Geralt was about to ask if he was okay before he felt the sting of a single hot tear.

_Oh,_ _shit_ _, was Regis…?_

Geralt sat dumbfounded and uncertain how to proceed. Something in the air was electric. Tremulous and not unlike the feeling he got before a dicey fight or after a spectacular fuck. It was distinctly unsettling, overcome by such a potent feeling without an immediately apparent source. Then he saw Regis’ eyes were wide open. Completely black. And staring right at him, unblinking and unholy.

“Uh.” He felt the first stirrings of apprehension. Regis _was_ a higher vampire, a being that could, on a whim, relieve him of his mortal coil without breaking a sweat. “This isn’t a relapse, is it?” Regis didn’t drink blood anymore, right? Geralt wasn’t feeling so sure suddenly. Less sure when an articulated sound from the pit of hell itself rattled out of his friend’s morphing countenance. It was Tesham Mutna all over again.

“He’s coming,” Regis growled. “Geralt?”

“Ugh,” said Geralt, grabbing his head. Then he vomited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witcher characters having Gwent cards of themselves will never not be outrageously funny to me. Sorry.


End file.
